Something on those lines, he decided, should suit the occasion well.
The engines were stopped, fuselage door opened, and a stairway wheeled in. As the others aboard waited politely, James Howden and Margaret were the first out.
The sun was shining patchily and a chilling north wind gusted across the airport.
As they paused, sheltered partially from the wind, on the platform above the stairs it occurred to Howden that the crowd, no more than a hundred yards away, was strangely quiet.
Stuart Cawston trotted up to meet them, his hand outstretched, 'Greetings!' he beamed, 'and welcome home on behalf of us all.'
'Goodness!' Margaret exclaimed. 'We were only away three days.'
'It's just that it seemed longer,' Cawston assured her. 'We missed you.'
As Smiling Stu's hand clasped Howden's he murmured, 'A wonderful, wonderful outcome. You've done a great service for the country.'
Moving down the stairway, with Margaret ahead, Howden inquired softly, 'You've talked with Lucien Perrault?' -
The Finance Minister nodded. 'Just as you instructed by phone. I informed Perrault, but no one else.'
'Good!' Howden said approvingly. They began to walk towards the airport buildings. 'We'll hold a full Cabinet tomorrow, and meanwhile I'd like to talk with you, Perrault, and one or two others tonight. It had better be in my office,'
Margaret protested, 'Must it really be tonight, Jamie? We're both tired and I did so hope it could be a quiet evening.'
'There'll be other quiet evenings,' her husband replied with a trace of impatience.
'Perhaps you could drop over to our place, Margaret,' Cawston suggested. 'I'm sure Daisy would be pleased.'
'Thank you, Stu,' Margaret shook her head. 'I think not tonight.'
Now they were halfway to the terminal building. Behind them, others were descending from the aeroplane.
Once more the Prime Minister was conscious of the silent, watching crowd. He observed curiously, 'They're unusually quiet, aren't they?'
A frown crossed Cawston's face. 'I'm told the natives aren't friendly.' He added: 'It's an organized demonstration, it seems. They came in buses.'
At that, as if the words were a signal, the storm broke.
The catcalls and boos came first, intensely fierce, as if pent up and suddenly released. Then there were shouts, with words audible like 'Scrooge!' 'Dictator!' 'Heartless Bastard!' 'We'll get you out!' 'You won't be Prime Minister long!' 'Wait until the next election!'
At the same time, with a kind of ragged precision, the placards went up. Until this moment they had been concealed, but now Howden could read:
IMMIGRATION DEPT:
CANADA'S GESTAPO
LET DUVAL IN,
HE DESERVES A BREAK
CHANGE FIENDISH
IMMIGRATION LAWS
JESUS CHRIST WOULD BE
TURNED AWAY HERE
CANADA NEEDS DUVAL,
NOT HOWDEN
THIS HEARTLESS GOVERNMENT
MUST GO
Tight-lipped he asked Cawston, 'You knew of this?' 'Brian Richardson warned me,' the Finance Minister said unhappily. 'According to him, the whole thing has been bought and paid for by the Opposition. But, frankly, I didn't think it would be this bad.' '
The Prime Minister saw television cameras swing towards the placards and the booing crowd. This scene would be going across the country tonight.
There was nothing else to do but continue on to the terminal doorway as the angry shouts and booing grew louder. James Howden took Margaret's arm and forced a smile. 'Just act as if nothing is happening,' he urged, 'and don't hurry.' 'I'm trying,' Margaret said. 'But it's a bit hard.' The sound of shouting diminished as they entered the terminal building. A group of reporters was waiting, Brian Richardson hovering behind. More TV cameras were focused upon the Prime Minister and Margaret.
As the Howdens halted, a young reporter asked, 'Mr Prime Minister, have you changed your views at all on the Duval immigration case?'
After Washington… the parley in high places, the President's respect, his own success… to have this the first question was a final indignity. Experience, wisdom, caution fled as the Prime Minister declared wrathfully, 'No, I have not changed my views, nor is there any likelihood that I shall. What occurred just now – in case you are unaware – was a calculated political demonstration, staged by irresponsible elements.' The reporters' pencils raced as Howden continued, 'These elements – and I need not name them – are using this minor issue in an attempt to divert public attention from the real achievements of the Government in more important areas. Furthermore, I say to you that the Press, by its continued emphasis on this insignificant affair, at a time when grave and great decisions confront our country, is being duped or is irresponsible, and perhaps both.'
He saw Brian Richardson, shake his head urgently. Well, Howden thought, the newspapers had things their own way often enough, and sometimes attack was the best defence. But more moderately, his temper cooling, he continued, 'You gentlemen should remember that I answered questions on this subject, patiently and at length, three days ago. But if you have forgotten, I will emphasize again that the Government intends to abide by the law as embodied in the Immigration Act.'
Someone said quietly, 'You mean you'd leave Duval to rot on the ship?'
The Prime Minister snapped: 'The question does not concern me.'
It was an unfortunate choice of phrase: he had meant that the matter was outside his own jurisdiction. But obstinacy prevented him from changing what was already said.
By evening the quotation had gone from coast to coast. Radio and TV repeated it, and morning paper editors, with minor variations, slugged the story:
Duvaclass="underline" PM 'Unconcerned'
Press, Public 'Irresponsible'
Part 12 Vancouver, January 4th
Chapter 1
The Prime Minister's flight had landed at Ottawa airport a few minutes before 1.30 in the afternoon. Eastern Standard Time. In Vancouver at the same moment – four provinces and three time zones to the west – it was still morning and nearing 10.30 AM, at which hour the order nisi affecting the future and freedom of Henri Duval was due to be heard in judge's chambers.
'Why judge's chambers?' Dan Orliffe asked Alan Maitland, whom he had intercepted in the bustling upper floor corridor of the BC Supreme Court Building. 'Why not in a courtroom?' Alan had come in a moment earlier from outside where, overnight, a bitter blustering wind had set the city shivering. Now, in the warm building, a press of human traffic swirled around them: hurrying lawyers, gowns billowing; others with litigants in last-minute conclaves; court officials; news reporters – more of the latter than usual today because-of interest the Duval case had aroused.
'The hearing will be in a courtroom,' Alan said hurriedly. 'Look, I can't stop; we'll be heard in a few minutes.' He was uncomfortably aware of Dan Orliffe's poised pencil and open notebook. He had faced so many in the past few days: ever since Orliffe's original news story; then yesterday again, after the news had broken of his application for a habaeas corpus writ. There had been a spate of interviews and questions: Did he really have a case? What did he expect would happen? If the full writ was granted, what next?…
He had sidestepped most of the questions, excusing himself on professional grounds; and in any event, he had said, he could not discuss a case which was now sub judice. He had -been conscious too of the disfavour with which judges looked on publicity-seeking lawyers, and the press attention so far had made him acutely uncomfortable on this score. But none of this concern had stopped the headlines, yesterday and today; or the news reports on radio and television…